


Crumbs in Bed

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mycroft takes sleeping pills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's home from work, Mycroft's working from home, sleepiness is an issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crumbs in Bed

It was morning when Greg finally made it back to the flat. Most of the locks took two attempts to find the right key, but he was too tired to start swearing, and besides, it had ended well. Finding the suspect with the murder weapon half a centimeter into the flesh of his last (surviving) victim, followed with a terrified confession, was pretty good work.  
He could hear Mycroft’s voice in his study as he passed, and didn’t pause. Mycroft, being Mycroft, would have seen his graceless entrance to the flat after the first attempt with the wrong key had set off the security cameras. If Mycroft hadn’t known it was him, he wouldn’t have made it in the door. But he had, and Mycroft hadn’t come and let him in. That meant that Mycroft was not just busy, but that the call was important.  
Greg glanced at his watch. 6:38. “Oh, boy,” Greg sighed, running his hands roughly over his face and bumping into the doorframe before he made it to the bedroom. The bed was still unmade. He bent down, lifting a pillow aside, sliding his hand over the sheet. Graininess. He licked a finger, touched it to the patch of debris his hand had swept up, and tasted it, heading back to the hall outside Mycroft’s study. Something crunchy, but fine-grained. Not a good sign. He listened at the door for a moment, and hearing nothing, tapped it gently with a finger.  
“Yes, I’m done,” Mycroft called.  
Greg pushed the door open with one hand, carefully touching his tongue to the crumbs on his finger again. “Tastes like... Middle East?”  
Mycroft looked up at him, startled, and saw the distracted, speculative look on Greg’s face, the way his mouth was working, and the carefully pointed finger. He rolled his eyes, sighing. “Yes. Cereal?”  
“Yeah. And not Shreddies.”  
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, resting his forehead on one hand and dropping his pen. “I needed sleep.”  
“Yeah, it’s fine. How’d it go?”  
“No deaths. Which is something of an achievement.”  
Greg smiled. “They’re all achievements. You off to the office, then?”  
“No. This resolution has possibly bought me the rest of the morning.”  
“Good. I’m just off to bed.”  
“Tired?” Mycroft shifted his hand from his forehead to a fist under his cheek.  
Greg looked at him sadly. “I’ve been out since last night, Mycroft.”  
Mycroft sat up, his hands falling into his lap. “What time is it?”  
“Still before seven.”  
“Good Lord.” He got to his feet and came around the desk, holding his arm out to Greg. “I’ll get you a cup of tea. You can wait in the kitchen while I change the sheets.”


End file.
